There once was a man from Nantucket

There once was a man from Nantucket

Who wore on his head a big bucket the limerick all made he rolled in his grave when the last line came out as

cricket is a hell of a sport. Non-Americans mock their football, but you don't play that for five days and still have a chance of only getting a draw. That's why I took the bat and

turned their best player into a nutless wonder with one large, fateful swing. I was going out, and I was going out with a bang. I feel a little bad about it now, in retrospect. His

children would have been beautiful if he weren't dating the ugliest girl I have ever seen. We tried to talk him out of it. "Just look at her face!" We'd say. "She looks

better when she's sedated", he'd say. It wasn't long before she passed away like the others, and all the talk of kids was dropped. He packed his

snack, and then went back, to his cadillac, to give his sack a good shalaque to a picture of shaq, that he had in a stack

on a magazine rack. And he received no flak for the yak of his jack. But he was taken aback by an attack from some quack riding a hack (without slack) on a railroad track.

His head went smack and his jaw went slack when he fell from the great whack. There was no going back. The world went black and as the train appeared he had a panic attack.

The light was orange, he reached for the door hinge. He leapt with a poor twinge. His hair was now more fringed. He made it out except for a singe. The Endge